


Changed

by cywscross



Series: "___ Me" Drabble Prompts [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Nogitsune, Stiles is both more and less than he used to be.</p><p>(Peter loves him regardless.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changed

**Author's Note:**

> _obsidianstudy said: "Break Me", steter? Maybe something with stiles and runes and coffee smh if at all possible?_
> 
> Steter, angst, Stiles, runes, and coffee make for a very random combination but okay. I meant to get this out earlier but it’s been a busy week, real life is kicking my ass, and also, this thing just wouldn’t write itself. I actually had a different idea at first, then I got stuck a couple hundred words in, ended up scrapping the thing and then going with this idea instead. Not much plot this time though, and the angst is really understated. Like, imo, it’s kind of heartbreaking all the way through, but it’s not very in-your-face about it, and some things are only implied.

 

The bell above the door chimes as Peter steps into the bookshop, eyesight adjusting to the dimmer lighting.  He breathes in the mingled scent of wood and paper and ink as he lets the door swing shut behind him, making sure the Closed sign is still facing outward.

The counter is unmanned, the shop empty.  Peter walks past it without another glance, making his way down one aisle, then another, then another, all teeming with books on either side of him, floor to ceiling high.  The tick of a clock and Peter’s own footsteps are all that prevent complete silence.

He rounds to the back, pausing in front of a bookcase to tap five of the books, one at a time in consecutive order.  There’s no sound, but a second after he touches the last book – a hardcover copy of The House of the Scorpion – the bookcase slides open into the wall, leaving Peter free to duck through and head up the stairs inside.

He reaches the second landing, deliberately letting his shoes thump audibly against the floorboards.  It’s cozy up here, with simple furniture and stacks of books and potted plants.  There are two bedrooms, a bathroom each, a kitchen that opens into the sitting room, and a small balcony attached.  The place is painted in earthy tones, and the window is open to let in the morning breeze.

The sitting room is occupied, papers scattered all over the coffee table, and the apartment’s only other occupant is sitting on the couch.

Peter approaches, one hand coming up to work loose one of the drinks from the cup tray he’s carrying.  “Good morning, Stiles. You’re up early today.”

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one.

“Your coffee,” He says instead, setting down one of the cups on a surface free of papers even as his eyes dart briefly over the sketch Stiles is rapidly drawing up.  If he’s honest, he barely understands a third of it.

This time though, he gets a response.  Pale fingers wrap around the cup and bring it up for an appreciative sip.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, a beat belated as he spares a glance up at Peter.

Peter nods.  “You’re welcome.”

Stiles nods back and – satisfied that he’s human’d enough for at least the next few hours – goes back to his work.

Peter lingers for a moment, his free hand grazing over Stiles’ nearest shoulder, but when the boy shifts down just enough to avoid the touch, he retracts his hand and moves to take a seat in the armchair with his own cup of tea instead.

For a while, Peter just sits and watches and enjoys his drink.  It’s not as good as the ones he makes himself, but they ran out of coffee yesterday and haven’t restocked yet, and Stiles likes his morning coffee so Peter simply went out and bought drinks for both of them.

He drains the rest of his tea before he finally gets up, moving to the kitchen to get started on breakfast.  There’s enough ingredients for pancakes, and Stiles always likes those, especially when they have chocolate chips thrown in.

He’s putting the final touches on them when the steady thump of Stiles’ heartbeat suddenly rushes from the sitting room to an abrupt standstill right behind Peter’s left shoulder.  Stiles has done it before, more than once, but Peter still has to fight down the instinctual twitch of his shoulders because the heartbeat is always the only thing that gives Stiles away; the boy is otherwise silent as a shadow.

He carefully glances over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of sharp teeth that don’t quite fit a human mouth.  “Pancakes are almost done, Stiles.  Do you mind setting the table?”

For a couple seconds, Stiles just stays there, breaths puffing against Peter’s neck.  Then he nods once and pads off for the cabinets.

They eat breakfast in silence, which isn’t uncommon.  It isn’t an _uncomfortable_ silence at least, not to mention they’re both occupied enough anyway, Stiles with his latest commission, Peter with a book, and for a while, the scratch of a pencil, the rustle of pages, and the clink of cutlery are the only sounds that permeate the apartment.

They’re nearing the tail-end of the meal when Stiles breaks the silence first.  “Are you opening the shop today?”

Peter bookmarks the page he was on and reaches for his glass of water as he nods.  “Yes.”

It’s a Sunday.  He doesn’t always, but he has nothing better to do so he might as well.

Stiles makes an acknowledging hum as he folds up the sketch he was working on.  “I’m not helping out today; I have to go out.”  He waves the piece of paper.  “Customer wants to see the schematics before giving me the go-ahead.”

He sneers a little at the end, and he has the right to it.  Anyone who questions Stiles’ work at this point is a paranoid idiot.  Arrogant too if they think they’ll be able to even _locate_ any mistakes, much less tell Stiles how to correct them.

Peter gives him a measured look.  “Do you want me to come with you?”

Stiles tips a flat expression at him in return.  “No.”

He gets up, chair scraping back, and moves to the sink to deposit his plate and cutlery.  It only takes a minute more to gather all the papers on the coffee table, stick them in a bag, and toe on his shoes.  He’s gone a moment later, walking right into a shadowed corner and disappearing without a sound instead of using the stairs.

Peter sighs and polishes off the last of his breakfast.  He really hopes he won’t have to get rid of another corpse today all because the customer was stupid.  Only his nice shoes are available; his other pair are still soaking in a basin because he got blood on them last time.

 

* * *

 

It’s late afternoon, and Peter’s reorganizing a shelf of Jane Austens because some moron let their fucking kid loose, who then proceeded to run around and start grabbing handfuls of books, pulling them off the shelves and throwing them as far as his little pudgy arms could hurl them.

He definitely enjoyed kicking them out when the mom had the gall to blame _him_ for her son getting a papercut.  He even… _persuaded_ her to pay him back for the five books the kid managed to damage before Peter could put a stop to the desecration.

They should be glad he didn’t rip their throats out.

Again, an extra heartbeat is his only warning right before a warm body drapes itself over his shoulders and down his back, shoes tapping at his heels.

“Stiles,” Peter can’t quite keep the smile out of his voice, and his attempt is half-hearted at best anyway.  The irritated tension from earlier begins to dissipate as he finishes sliding the last book back into place before reaching around to sling an arm around Stiles’ waist.  His grip tightens when Stiles allows it.  “Tough day at work?”

Stiles huffs an annoyed breath next to his ear.  “The customer was stupid.  Kept pointing at random spots and asking if I was _sure_ I hadn’t made a mistake there, and he wouldn’t shut up with his suggestions about how he could’ve made it better, but his suggestions were all dumb or way simpler than my design or just didn’t make _sense_.  And if he _could_ do so much better, then he shouldn’t have hired me in the first place!”

Peter snorts.  Sounds about as great a day as his.  Some people, honestly.  “Did you eat him?”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles in his peripheral vision.  “No, he was bald and sweaty and smelled like rat.  I’m pretty sure he’s a rodent shifter of some kind.  They smell gross, and they probably don’t taste much better.”

Probably not.

“Did you get paid?”  Peter enquires next.

Stiles grins, a flash of fang showing.  “After all the work I put into them?  Of course I did.  And he already signed a contract anyway, so I got my money, he got his wards, and I got a… _bonus_.  Trauma pay.”

Peter smirks.  “I’m sure he was properly traumatized.”

Stiles’ grin just widens.  “And you?  How was your day?”

Peter immediately growls before recounting his short-lived battle with the mom and her fucking kid.

Stiles frowns at the end.  “Humans are stupid.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees, leading Stiles to the front of the store so that Peter can lock up for the day.  “And the sooner we put their stupidity out of our minds, the happier we’ll be.  Now, did you want to eat in or go out for dinner tonight?”

“In,” Stiles decides, still hanging like a limpet off Peter as Peter makes his way towards the back of the shop once he’s drawn the curtains and set the alarm, the latter of which is more or less pointless considering any intruder would have to get through the wards first.

Which is next to impossible.  Stiles’ reputation precedes him.  Last time Peter put his ear to the ground, word has it that there’s no better ward-crafter on all Americas’ east coast.  A Spark with over a thousand years’ worth of memories is a formidable thing.  Not that anyone else knows that.  They just think prodigy, which Stiles technically is too.  Mere memories don’t account for how creative Stiles can get with runes, improving existing wards and inventing something new every other month.

Stiles only lets go once they’re in their apartment, wandering away to his bedroom to drop off his bag.  Peter absently glances down at himself, eyeing the smoky black tendril that curls around his wrist before trailing to the floor and snaking after Stiles.  He smiles fondly before heading to the sofa for some rest before dinner.  Stiles joins him again a minute later, flopping down with an otherworldly sort of grace along the couch so that his head drops right onto Peter’s lap.  The tendril disappears.  Peter starts combing fingers through Stiles’ hair, relaxing further when Stiles leans into the touch this time, a low purr stirring deep in his chest.

It’s always a bit touch-and-go when it comes to Stiles these days, mostly because he isn’t really human anymore.  But he isn’t a proper supernatural creature either.  He’s Something Else, sustained only by his Spark.  The Nogitsune had to carve _something_ out of him when it decided to hide in Stiles, to live in him and later wear him like a very murderous suit.  And when it left, well, the Nogitsune didn’t exactly return what it tore out.  It probably couldn’t even if it was so inclined.  You can’t give back what you’ve already destroyed.

And what it destroyed was a bit of Stiles.  More than a bit, considering how long it possessed him, even before it made itself known to the others.  Nowadays, Stiles is… still Stiles, but more and less than he used to be at the same time.  More, because the Nogitsune unlocked Stiles’ Spark early, gave it an extra boost even, and left behind enough memories to make historians around the globe drool with envy.  It gave him power and knowledge both.  But less too, because there are days when Stiles doesn’t remember his humanity, doesn’t _have_ it, and even Peter in all his sociopathic werewolf glory has some humanity in him.  Stiles is better around Peter though, even on his worst days.  Peter anchors him, reminds him, and the worst it really gets is an aloof remoteness that comes and goes and means he doesn’t want to be disturbed or doesn’t want to be touched or simply doesn’t understand why he can’t just kill that one cashier at the local supermarket for paying more attention to her phone than the customers.

But they make it work, and Peter is patient with Stiles, explaining human societies and laws and coaxing Rules into him, but never demanding because you don’t make demands of a god.  Which is more than he can say for the people they left behind in Beacon Hills.

It seemed fine at first, right after the Nogitsune was imprisoned again, and most of the pack was too busy grieving Allison’s death to pay any attention to Stiles, which – sadly – wasn’t exactly anything new.  But Peter watched, as he always has when it came to Stiles.  Most people come out of a possession either dead or a vegetable.  Stiles was neither.  It stood to reason then that some other consequence had been reaped from him.

And there was.  Stiles was quieter, almost silent, and no longer prone to fidgeting.  With every pack meeting, he would sit on one side and watch the others, less and less like he was inwardly rolling his eyes at Scott’s white knight approach to ridding Beacon Hills’ most recent evil or mocking Derek’s eyebrows or making contingency plans for when the McCall Pack’s usual headlong rush at the next monster went south, and more and more like he was calculating what it might take to pick each pack member off if he needed to or how long it might take to shut each of them up because they were boring him.

None of the others noticed.  But Peter did, and he began preparing for the inevitable.

And then, in the midst of fighting a couple of psychotic hunters, Stiles plucked out a coil of wire from his bag and promptly garroted one with it within seconds.  _That_ , everybody noticed.

The rant Scott rained on Stiles in the aftermath still makes Peter wonder to this day how the boy-Alpha managed to walk away from it in one breathing piece.  Stiles never got angry, never even got upset.  He just stared at Scott like he was wondering why such an insignificant flea was making itself such a huge target in front of a predator.

But it happened again and again.  Stiles was ruthless when it came to defeating their enemies, which was what Peter was subtly pushing for from the very beginning – giving your enemies a second chance to come back and fuck you up wasn’t smart no matter how you looked at it – but it wasn’t what _Scott_ wanted, even though it did the job of scaring off quite a few other monsters.

Then came the day when they were all fighting again, a kelpie in the waterways that kept dragging its victims into a river, eating them, and tossing their entrails back on the shore.  It already ate nine people.

Stiles was banned from the fight because Scott didn’t want the kelpie dead.  He came anyway, but he stood at the nearby treeline, and Peter lurked a few feet away, observing.  It happened in a moment, while the teenage werewolves were all half-drowned from the blasts of water that the kelpie kept shooting at them – the kelpie lunged out, grabbed Isaac by one ankle, and werewolf or no, the boy crashed to the ground with a frantic yell, struggling in vain as the kelpie hauled him into the river.

Stiles was right there as Isaac was dragged past him, but all he did was watch dispassionately as the kelpie succeeded in yanking the werewolf into the cold depths of its territory.

Only Argent’s timely intervention – barrelling out into the clearing and putting three bullets in the kelpie’s head – saved Isaac from certain death.

 _“Why didn’t you save him!”_   Scott kept shouting afterwards.  _“You were right there!”_

Stiles shrugged.  _“You said not to.”_

_“He was gonna die!”_

Stiles just blinked.  _“So?”_

Scott didn’t realize, probably still doesn’t realize, but Peter is fairly certain Stiles wouldn’t have left Isaac to his demise if Scott didn’t specifically tell him to stay out of the fight and all future fights.  _For Scott_ , even if Stiles didn’t exactly understand why he should, he would’ve gone on protecting the pack, as he was doing all along, even if the cost of it was their enemies’ bodies.  Stiles was different, but not so different that he forgot about his connection to Scott.  At least not until that point.

But Scott didn’t see that.  And when Peter – having been eavesdropping for weeks because he knew it was coming – overheard their True Alpha and Derek making noises about _Stiles_ and _Eichen House_ , he knew it was time to go.  He made a few calls, packed up his belongings, emptied the Hale Vault of anything remotely valuable and shipped them out to the warehouse near the new place he bought a month back, far away from California, and then he drove over to the Sheriff’s house, sat Stiles down, and made it very clear _why_ they should leave town at the earliest opportunity.

Stiles asked only one question – why couldn’t they solve this problem by killing the McCall Pack?

It took a while, but Peter pointed out the general suspicion that would ensue, and the people who would suspect most, like Deaton, like the _Sheriff_.  And apparently, Stiles still remembered the emotions associated with his father well enough to concede when the man was brought up.  Not love – Stiles doesn’t really _get_ love anymore – but something all the same.

So they left.  Without fanfare and without prior notice, although Stiles did send a letter to his dad once they were gone, just one.  Peter doesn’t know what it said, and he never asked.

In turn, Stiles never asked why Peter was going with him, and he never has.  Peter doubts that sort of thing even occurs to Stiles these days, which he’s almost thankful for, most of the time.

And now here they are, two years later, in a quaint little town in Nova Scotia because Peter didn’t want to deal with any legal repercussions if they were to stay in the United States, on the off-chance that someone manages to track them down.

It helps that the town has a thriving supernatural underbelly, living side by side with humans who know _something’s_ a little strange but they actively Do Not Care, and it’s apparently been that way since the town was established.  Even better – nothing tries to kill them every other week, and that alone, as far as Peter is concerned, is already several dozen steps up from Beacon Hills.

It’s a good place to settle; Peter runs the bookshop downstairs, and Stiles sells wards to both the supernatural townsfolk and others who manage to get in contact with him.  He’s even begun getting overseas commissions; that’s how far his name has spread.

“Can we have pasta tonight?”  Stiles speaks up, and Peter blinks out of his thoughts to focus on the present.  Stiles’ head lolls back lazily.  “I like pasta.”

It’s the first time in a while since Stiles last said he likes something.

“Of course, darling,” Peter smooths down Stiles’ hair before stooping to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.  Stiles doesn’t shove him away or stare in confusion when he straightens again so Peter counts it as a win.  “Anything you want.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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